


Journal of the Fallen Poet

by RoamingJay



Category: Bleach, Poetry - Fandom
Genre: 18th century poet, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Izuru is an introspective guy, Yachiru knows all, possessed journal, sarcasm abounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoamingJay/pseuds/RoamingJay
Summary: Inspired by a prompt from fanficy-prompts on tumblr. While on a walk back to his barracks, Izuru reflects on the state of melancholy that has befallen not only him but the Seireitei itself, and finds the journal of an 18th century poet...that writes back to whomever inks its pages. The journal makes its way around the Gotei 13, and despite language barriers, many Soul Reapers are able to connect with the moody teenage soul within. I'm not sure how many chapters this will end up having, but the structure is meant to be one chapter per character. Takes place before Rukia goes to the World of the Living.
Kudos: 5





	Journal of the Fallen Poet

**_Prompt:_ ** _A disheartened poet happens upon an old diary. They decide to start using it, but every time they write a poem, someone mysteriously replies and critiques them: a_ ~~_19_ _th_ ~~ _{18_ _th_ _} century poet._

**Izuru**

Despair was something that Izuru Kira had gotten used to during his time as a Lieutenant. The symbol of his division was the marigold, after all, but he knew that melancholy wasn’t just limited to the Third. It had infected the Gotei 13 long ago, though no one had really spoken openly about it. He knew that many of his friends and even his Captain had fallen into that mire of despair. They all felt the mild but not yet debilitating sorrow plaguing the Seireitei. Unfortunately, there seemed to be nothing Izuru could do about it. They all went about their daily lives as normal, and so did he, acting as if nothing was wrong at all.

Captain Ichimaru kept up that infuriatingly mischievous yet serene smile of his as they chatted idly over paperwork.

Rangiku teased him like she always did when given the chance.

Renji insisted on having another one of their sparring matches, which left him out of breath, but in a slightly better mood than he’d begun with.

Momo was her sweet, bubbly self when they met in passing.

Shuhei seemed cordial as ever when he asked him about the next piece he was working on for Seireitei Communication, and even laughed good-naturedly when Izuru told him he was having a bit of a block. That was followed by a few words of encouragement, and an assurance of, “Knowing you, you’ll come up with something brilliant that makes me look like a no-talent hack!” Despite the smile that he couldn’t help giving, he really didn’t like it when his friend put himself down like that. It proved his point, Shuhei, like all the others and himself, masked his despair by putting on a grin and acting like this was just business as usual, simply because it was.

He hated it.

He couldn’t change it, though, so he resigned himself once more to living with it and trying not to let it cripple him. There were still plenty of things worth living for, after all, and Izuru was not one to give up on himself so easily. Despair was just a natural part of life, and one that had to be balanced out with joy in order to not consume everything, just as joy in turn had to be balanced out with despair. His friends brought him joy in many forms, however irritating they could be, at times. His loyalty to his Captain and his Division brought him the joy of duty and purpose. His writing brought him the joy of release, when he could actually get around to it.

All of these musings ran through the blond’s mind as he walked back to the Third Division barracks, enjoying the cool night air of the early Fall. The leaves of the maple trees would most likely change colors soon, he noted, nearly missing the old leather-bound book lying in the middle of the street. Just as he was about to step on it, however, he took notice of it and picked it up to examine it.

The book was smaller than most of the ones Izuru had previously read, and it did indeed look fairly old, despite being in oddly good condition. In leafing through it, he found many of the pages to be blank, until he got near what he’d previously presumed to be the end, where he’d found a poem that had been written in English. His knowledge of the language wasn’t exactly fluent, but he knew enough to be able to understand the gist of what the previous owner had written. He flipped the journal over to read it from right to left so that the poems would be in what he assumed was the order that they had been written. Several of them were written in a style that he couldn’t understand at all, which he assumed to be a sort of Medieval form of English. The ones he could mostly understand had a melancholy yet satirical feel to them, as if their writer had immense disdain for the world around him. There was even a small, obviously frustrated note written in one of the margins stating that if someone happened to find the journal, they would most likely find more use for it as kindling than proper reading. Izuru frowned, but took that as the previous owner’s permission to write in it, if he so wished. He’d been meaning to procure another journal for himself, anyway.

He closed the journal and continued his walk back to the barracks, feeling his writer’s block finally beginning to ebb away. The thought briefly entered his head of how the journal, which had clearly belonged to an English-speaking mortal from at least a century or two ago, had come to lay in the streets of the Seireitei, but he found himself more drawn to the fact that he in particular had been the one to find it. Was it some form of fate? Or was it just a coincidence that he happened upon the writings of this ancient poet who had shared some the despair that he was feeling? Was he supposed to learn from this experience? It was indeed curious to him.

Regardless of whether fate was involved or not, when he got back to his room, he was motivated to write, and write he did. His poems were not as long and drawn out as the previous writer’s; they were haiku, short and sweet and profound. They did not carry the anger or satire that the other poet’s did, either, but they did have the same somber tone when referring to his surroundings. His last haiku, however, conveyed a small bit of hope as it talked about a coming change in both the leaves and the mood. It brought a slight smile to his face.

To his shock, not long after he’d finished writing, English words began to appear on the page to the left of the one he’d been working on. “ _I admit_ ,” they read, “ _that I haven’t the slightest idea what you have just written_ .” Izuru stared down at the pages, blue eyes wide with a mix of fear, confusion, and curiosity. A journal that could write in itself, but only in English? Furthermore, it seemed to have its own consciousness, which intrigued him even more. “ _I do not even know what language you’re using_ ,” it continued, “ _or if you can, in turn, understand me. Perhaps I’ve even killed you with my frighteningly sudden appearance. Are you in fact still alive?_ ”

The blond finally recovered enough to pick his pen back up and write in shaky English, “ _I am. Apologies for my silence. You did surprise me quite a lot, and English is not my first language. I was writing in Japanese._ ” He finished his sentence, surprised that it had come out at all comprehensible, considering how rusty he was with the language. He knew his handwriting in it must have been atrocious, but somehow, he didn’t think the journal would mind. It wrote back almost immediately.

“ _Well, that is certainly good to know. For a moment, I feared you were weak of heart._ ” Izuru could almost hear the mirthful laughter behind the words, and was reminded of his Captain. “ _I have never had the opportunity to read Japanese writing before. Bristol wasn’t exactly a culturally diverse place when I lived there, and even London did not have access to reading materials from the Orient that were accessible to one of my station._ ”

“ _You’re from Great Britain?_ ” Izuru wrote back. “ _How did you manage to end up here in…_ ” he debated for a moment whether to reveal that they were in the Seireitei or not, but quickly decided against it. “ _Japan?_ ”

“ _I didn’t,_ ” was the short yet baffling answer. “ _My journal did. I am currently buried in a shallow and unmarked grave, presumably somewhere in or around London. That is the price of poisoning oneself. Or it was when I did it. That might have changed in the last few centuries._ ”

Izuru once again found himself staring at the page. The journal, or rather the spirit trapped within it, had just casually admitted that it, _they_ , had committed suicide. They were talking about it like it was no big deal, which didn’t sit well with him. Still, it had apparently happened centuries ago, so there was no helping it. He sighed and decided to change the subject with an equally blunt question. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“ _A poet,_ ” came again the reply. “ _And a forger. And a delinquent. And a failure. You, however, may call me Thomas._ ”

“ _Thomas, it is a pleasure to meet you, although these are certainly strange circumstances. My name is Izuru Kira. I’m a poet, as well, among other things._ ”

“ _Strange circumstances indeed. Were those poems that you were writing earlier?_ ”

“ _Yes. They were traditional style poems called haiku. I’m afraid they don’t translate to English very well, though._ ” That was true; they most certainly wouldn’t follow the 5-7-5 rule when translated, and he was afraid that that would take away from their simplicity and meaning. “ _I’ve been feeling rather somber lately, and finally found the motivation to write again when I found your journal._ ”

“ _Interesting. If you cannot properly translate them, could you perhaps tell me their subjects? I’m very curious, and you did write them in my journal, after all._ ”

The smugness radiating from that last statement made Izuru sigh in slight irritation. He figured that Thomas had a good point, and picked up his pen to write back. “ _The first few are about the dreary mood that has befallen the place where I live, and about how I can’t really help it. The last one is about a change that I can feel coming, both in season and in atmosphere._ ”

There was a brief pause before more words appeared on the page. “ _You are quite the introspective writer, clearly. That is something that I admittedly lacked when I was alive. Perhaps, if I had shared your talent for level-headed thought, I might have gone more than my seventeen years._ ” That made Izuru’s eyes nearly bug out of his head again. He was writing to the spirit of a dead teenager?! This journal’s story was quickly becoming more and more tragic with every bit of information that was revealed.

“ _Seventeen? How were you possibly considered a failure at such a young age?_ ” he demanded.

“ _If I could laugh sardonically at you, I would. You shall just have to imagine it instead._ ” Thomas’s reply was harsh, and Izuru really could imagine the teen’s barking, wry laughter. “ _I wasn’t considered a failure; I was one. I left my home, my family, and a promising job behind in Bristol because I was bored, convinced myself that I could make a living by forging medieval poems and selling them, and only wound up digging myself further into the hole of poverty because I kept making stupid decisions._ ”

The Lieutenant really didn’t know what to say to that. He leaned back from his desk a bit, staring down at the words that were now slowly fading from the page before glancing out his window at the darkened sky. It was late. Far later than he had intended on staying up. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the journal, only to see that four new words had appeared on the page. “ _Why do you care?_ ”

“ _Because I see a small part of myself in you,_ ” was Izuru’s surprisingly easy answer. He wasn’t sure how Thomas was going to take that, but he continued with another sentence. “ _I sincerely wish that I could have met you during your lifetime, and I am sorry for disturbing your peace._ ” He waited for new words to appear, but even after several minutes, none did. Izuru gently shut the journal and got himself ready for bed, briefly wondering if he should perform a kōnso, or if he even _could_ perform one on a soul trapped inside an inanimate object. His last conscious thought as he laid down was that he would research it in the morning.


End file.
